


Think about the break of day

by Merricat Kiernan (rosa_himmelblau)



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [49]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:55:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/Merricat%20Kiernan
Summary: Vinnie gets a stomach virus.Sonny is nobody's idea of a nurse.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [49]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713
Kudos: 1





	Think about the break of day

It started with a question.

They were sitting at the table, having breakfast, when Vinnie asked it out of a clear blue sky.

"Did you love her?" Vinnie didn't know why he asked it, or why he wanted to know. Sonny just looked at him.

"What're you, nuts? If she hadn't been wearing a nametag, I wouldn't've known what to call her. Anyway, what're you complaining about, I brought one home for you, too." He looked at Vinnie’s virtually untouched plate. "You’re not eating."

For a second, Sonny's answer didn't make any sense, then Vinnie realized he'd been talking about the stewardesses. No, wait, flight attendants. "Nobody wants to fuck a 'flight attendant.'" Sonny always says that, and they always laugh. Maybe that's Sonny's pick-up line.

It still didn't really make sense, considering how long ago it had been since Sonny had brought home any stewardesses. It didn't make sense to Vinnie, anyway, that that was where Sonny's mind would have gone to pick a "her." "Not her," Vinnie sighed. "Theresa."

Sonny put down his fork and looked at him. "Yeah. Why?"

Vinnie hadn't expected Sonny to answer him. And if he did, that wasn't what Vinnie expected him to say. "'Yeah.'? That's your answer?"

"What do you want, a sonnet?" He picked up his fork again, returning his attention to his food. "Eat your eggs."

"No, that's just a little—" Vinnie didn't know what it was a little. Succinct, maybe. He wasn't feeling very good, and this had been a bad idea. He used his fork to move the eggs around on his plate, but he didn’t put any in his mouth. They didn’t taste quite right.

"What did you think I was marrying her for?" Vinnie didn't say anything; he didn't know what to say. "C'm'on, you've been thinking something, what is it?"

Vinnie shrugged. "It happened so suddenly, I wasn't sure—" This wasn't going well, it was stupid, he didn't know why he'd started it—and he was going to throw up.

He pushed his chair back from the table, got up, and hurried to the bathroom.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sonny asked, but Vinnie couldn't answer. He was leaning over the toilet, vomiting, when Sonny got to the bathroom. When he glanced over, Vinnie saw Sonny staring at him, but a glance was all Vinnie could spare; he was throwing up again.

Sonny was gone, and then he was back, the back of his hand pressed to Vinnie's forehead. "You feel a little warm. Can't be food poisoning, we were eating the same thing at the same time. You allergic to anything I don’t know about?"

"The only thing I’m allergic to is cats," Vinnie said, winning himself a completely-deserved dope smack.

Except for calling him a moron, Sonny didn't say anything more. He stood leaning against the doorjamb.

Vinnie finally felt his stomach was empty, and he tried to get up. For a minute he thought he wasn't going to be able to make it to his feet, then Sonny grabbed him, hauled him up, and walked him to his bedroom.

Vinnie sat down on the bed, and again Sonny put the back of his hand to Vinnie's forehead. "Yeah, you're sick. Take your clothes off, get into bed." And then he was gone, turning off the light and closing the bedroom door behind him. Vinnie kicked off his shoes, unzipped his pants, and let himself fall across the bed.

_Vinnie didn't like the party. There was a man there he knew, a man he didn't want to see him, though he couldn't remember why. He kept looking around, trying to be sure he knew where the man was, so he could stay out of his range of vision, but then he'd lose track of him again, and he kept forgetting what he looked like. Sonny was there with Theresa, standing in an alcove, his arms around her, hands low, cupping her ass as he kissed her. Her hands were on his shoulders as though she was torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. Every so often she’d pull away, and Sonny would laugh and bring her close again. Vinnie wanted to just stand there and look at them. It made him insanely happy, watching them together, but then he’d remember about the man he was avoiding. He had to turn away and not watch them anymore. A waiter came by with a tray of drinks, and Vinnie took it from him. Nobody looked at waiters; he'd be as unnoticed as a potted plant as long as he held onto this tray._

_Vinnie found it surprisingly easy to step into the roll of a waiter, and he was right about no one paying attention to him. But the cocktails were nearly over, there was an awards ceremony about to start, everyone was moving to take their seats at a lot of little tables. Vinnie left his tray on a buffet table and moved with the crowd, still trying to keep the man in view. He was in front of Vinnie, that was good. As long as they didn't shine a spotlight on him, Vinnie was pretty sure he'd be OK—_

_"I've been looking all over for you." Theresa linked her arm through his. "Did you just get here?"_

_"I—no, I've been—"_

_Good thing she wasn't listening to him, he didn't know what he was supposed to say._

_"Now, you're sitting at my table aren't you? I hope they get this silly business over with quickly." She was Katharine Hepburn now, in some movie from the forties, wearing a white dress with silver stuff on it. Only she was still Theresa, she looked like her, and she had Sonny's engagement ring on her finger. "The monsignor's going to be there, and you'll want to meet him, but what's really important is, all the bridesmaids will be there, and they want to meet you. Besides, Sonny told me to look after you."_

_"Hey, Theresa, you know, I really need to get out of here, I've got—"_

_"Don't be ridiculous, they haven't even played the overture yet. Look at that! There's that terrible man, the one who sold me those alligators!" Theresa's voice seemed very loud, and she was pointing at the man Vinnie had been hiding from. "Come with me, I have to do something."_

_"Maybe you should let Sonny handle him," Vinnie suggested, but she still wasn't listening to him, she was walking down the aisle of the auditorium towards the man, and she was holding onto the sleeve of Vinnie’s jacket, so he had to go with her._

_The lights were going down, people were taking their seats at little tables. Most of the light from the room came from candles on the tables. Vinnie noticed that the candle holders looked like a miniature birthday cakes. Vinnie hoped maybe the man wouldn't notice him, or wouldn't recognize him, or something. He was sitting alone at a table. Theresa made her way to him and Vinnie trailed along, keeping his head down, praying the man didn't recognize him._

_When she got to the man, Theresa sneered at him. "Don't think we don't know what you did to her," she said, rather dramatically. "We know, and we're not going to keep it a secret!" And she spat into the glass of champagne the man was still holding. "That's what I think of you!"_

_The man said nothing. He looked at Theresa, then he looked at Vinnie. If he recognized Vinnie, it didn't show on his face._

_Theresa was gone. The lights were out, except for those on the stage. "You need to take your seat, sir." The voice came from behind Vince, and it was Frank's voice, all impersonal, and annoyed, and pretending Vince was a stranger._

_Vinnie turned around, but Frank wasn't there. He looked at the man he'd been trying to avoid, who now sat holding a glass of champagne Theresa had spat into. He put his drink down on the table, and took out a cigarette. Then he took out a cigarette holder and fitted the cigarette into it._

Vinnie woke suddenly, sweaty and feverish. The room was pitch dark—how much time had passed?—but Vinnie saw colors sparkling in the darkness. He felt terrible, achy, nauseated, and dizzy. No question about it, he had the flu.

There was light in the doorway. There was Sonny in the doorway. "You all right?" Sonny asked.

"Alligators," Vinnie said. He could see that both the blinds had been pulled and the curtains had been closed, that it wasn’t really dark out, it was just very dark in his room.

Sonny came into the room. "Did you say alligators?"

"Yeah, don't buy any."

"Yeah, OK, I'll take 'em off my shopping list. You all right? You need anything?"

"A fever," Vinnie said.

"I think you already got a fever." Sonny came over to the bed, put the back of his hand against Vinnie's forehead again. "Yeah. I'll get you a cold washcloth."

"Yeah." Vinnie closed his eyes. The room was going around in uneasy circles.

"Open your mouth," Sonny said, and Vinnie did, expecting—he wasn't sure what he was expecting. Ice, maybe, or a popsicle, something cool. But Sonny stuck a thermometer under his tongue, then put a blessedly cool washcloth on his forehead. "Don't bite down on it!"

"I think it was Paul Beckstead," Vinnie said. He'd been thinking about the man in his dream. "Or Charleton Heston. I'm not sure."

"Shut up, I'm taking your temperature."

Vinnie opened his eyes, looked at nothing because the washcloth was covering his eyes as well as his forehead, and closed his eyes again. His stomach was starting to feel rebellious again, but he didn't want to get up.

The thermometer was extracted from between his lips, the washcloth was replaced by a cooler one. Had Sonny brought a bowl of ice water with him? "People in hell want ice water, people in purgatory actually get it," Vinnie said.

"Again with purgatory? You're still not dead, you're just sick. Your fever's almost a hundred."

"I'm gonna throw up again," Vinnie said, and Sonny got out of his way.

His stomach lurched, but Vinnie made it to the bathroom before he lost what was probably last night’s dinner. He was kneeling on the floor, and again he didn't think he could get up—he was having trouble figuring out which way up was, anyway.

Sonny helped him. "I thought you were getting undressed."

"I thought I was undressed," Vinnie said, looked down at his jeans, which were sliding down without the zipper holding them up. He nearly tripped, and Sonny swore, but he made it to the bed.

"Take your clothes off," Sonny said. "Take everything off."

"Why do I need—"

"Don't argue with me!" Sonny snapped at him, and he sounded really angry, so Vinnie shut up. He had to rest in between his jeans and shorts, but he got undressed.

When he had everything off, Sonny handed him a fresh T-shirt and shorts to put on. "Your feet cold? You want some socks?"

"No, nothing's cold." Vinnie was struggling with the T-shirt.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sonny took it away from him, pulled it over his head, pushing his arms into it, smoothing it down.

"It was just a joke," Vinnie said. He couldn't figure out what Sonny was mad about. The only thing he could think of was his joke about the ice water. He knew it was the being sick, but he didn’t want Sonny to be mad at him.

"What was a joke? Can you put those on without falling down?" Sonny asked.

Vinnie looked at the shorts he was holding. They were pale gray silk. Sonny had bought them for him because he knew how much Vinnie liked them. If he'd ever told anybody that the one creature comfort he really missed from his days in Atlantic City was his silk boxers—well, he wouldn't have. Life was hard enough without asking for trouble. Somebody used to say that to him. His mother, maybe, or his father. He looked at Sonny, who was still waiting for an answer to his question. "Yeah, I think." He stood up, and the room went around a couple of times, in what felt like both directions at once. "Why am I changing my underwear?" He was suddenly worried maybe he'd needed to change it, and that was why Sonny was mad at him.

"Because you're sick. If you're going to be sick, you might as well be as comfortable as you can. Later, when you can sit up for a while, I'll change the sheets."

Vinnie didn't have to ask to know this was what Sonny's mother's did when someone was sick. The cold washcloth for his forehead was everybody's mother did.

"What was just a joke?" Sonny asked again.

"About purgatory," Vinnie said. It didn't seem like Sonny was mad at him anymore, and he was confused.

Sonny chuckled. "Yeah, I recognized it, but thanks for the clarification."

"You pissed at me?" He lay back down; he had to lay back down.

"No, why would I be pissed at you? Get up, you're on top of the covers."

"Minute," Vinnie said, and lay there, trying to figure out if he had to go back to the bathroom.

He did, but not to throw up.

When he came back, Sonny had thrown back the covers, so all he had to do was lie down.

"Look, if you're hoping Florence Nightingale's gonna come and look after you, forget it," Sonny said. "All you got is me, and I hate it."

"I'm not having much fun myself," Vinnie said.

Sonny laughed. "Go to sleep." He put the cool, cool washcloth back on Vinnie's head.

_Vinnie was leaving the nightclub, looking over his shoulder because he knew Beckstead was following him, but he couldn’t see him. He was looking for his car—he was sure he’d parked it near the entrance—but he couldn’t find that, either._

_A limo pulled up, and Vinnie thought that Sonny was there to get him, but when the door opened it wasn’t Sonny who was inside, it was Theresa. "I had your car taken back to the hotel," she said, and she was smiling as though she’d done him the biggest favor. "Let me give you a lift."_

_Vinnie got in the car. He was nervous; he couldn’t get a read on Theresa, whether she actually liked him—or at least didn’t dislike him—or whether she was doing a terrific job of pretending. Either way, she was Sonny’s wife, so he’d better make sure she thought he liked her._ Don’t you like her? _Vinnie wondered, and he wasn’t sure._ What difference does it make? She’s Sonny’s wife, she loves Sonny, that should be enough, right? __

_"Home, Senora Steelgrave?" the chauffeur asked._

_"Si, Carlo."_

_Theresa looked positively radiant, which wasn’t surprising—she had Sonny’s rings on her finger. From the first time Vinnie had seen her looking at Sonny, he’d known just how in love with him she was. She adored him. The same thing Vinnie saw in Sonny’s eyes when Sonny looked at him, he saw in Theresa’s eyes when she looked at Sonny. It made him sad, and he profoundly hoped that Theresa didn’t know._

Vinnie woke up again. He was alone, and he didn’t think he’d slept very long. He could see a little light at the top of his window. "So, whaddaya think, is this obsession with Theresa part of being sick, or are you gonna spend you time worrying about her now?" Vinnie hoped it was because he was sick. He knew that when he was really sick, his thoughts got scrambled up and his emotions rose to the surface, as though brought there with the fever. This fragile, crazy feeling was nothing more than a symptom, like his having to go back to the bathroom again.

"Theresa is living her life, Sonny is not pining for her, and I’m not going losing my mind again, I’m just sick. It’s just the flu."

Sonny came back into the room. "Are you in here talking to yourself?"

"I’m sick," Vinnie said. "I have the flu."

"No kidding, I told you that. You weren’t talking to me, were you?"

"I was talking to myself," Vinnie said. "You were in the other room." His stomach was telling him it was empty again, and he wanted to get back to bed.

"Since when does it matter where I am, you talk to me anyway," Sonny said.

_Not for a long time,_ Vinnie thought, but he kept it to himself, _and you do the same thing, and what’s your excuse?_ Sonny felt his forehead again. "You’re still too warm. Go back to sleep. And quit talking to yourself."

_They weren't alone in the limo. Aldo was sitting next to Theresa, nursing a bullet wound to the shoulder that mirrored the one he'd given Vinnie in Vancouver. Vinnie had the feeling things were going to start going downhill very quickly now._

_Theresa was talking to him, but Vinnie couldn't understand anything she was saying. "Your words are coming through a pillow," Vinnie told her, not sure what that was supposed to mean. She said something else, and Vinnie said it again. "You're talking through a pillow."_

_Aldo laughed at that._

_They had stopped the car on a side street; Vinnie knew they were in Brooklyn someplace, but he didn't know where, he didn't recognize anything. Aldo said something to Theresa, who nodded, then she patted Vinnie's hand, almost apologetically._

_"What?" Vinnie asked._

_There was a rap on the window. It sounded like someone was tapping the glass with a rock. Theresa powered down the window. Frank was there, leaning over, looking in. Vinnie didn't know whether to be relieved or more worried._

_"Yes, officer?" Theresa asked, though Frank wasn't wearing a uniform, hadn't shown her a badge._

_"You can't park here," Frank said. "We're clearing the streets for the parade."_

_"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Here, let me give you something for your trouble." She took some money out of her purse, and gave it to Frank, who looked at it, puzzled._

_"Ma'am, this is Canadian money. You can’t bribe a police officer with Canadian money."_

_"Oh, I'm sorry. My brother is in Canada, he must have sent it to me by mistake." She took back the bills—they weren't Canadian, Vinnie could see that—and handed them to Vinnie. "Give me some money to give to this policeman," she said, and Vinnie took out his wallet and gave her a handful of bills._

_"Thank you, ma'am," Frank said, and stepped away from the window. Vinnie watched him put the money in his pocket. He was trying to decide if he should maybe get out of the car while he could when Frank came back over. Theresa was putting the window back up, but when he leaned near, she reversed it._

_"Pretend you don't know who I am," Frank told Vinnie._

_"I am, Frank" Vinnie said._

_"That's good."_

"What?" Sonny's voice woke Vinnie up. He was standing in the doorway, looking impatient.

"I was asleep," Vinnie said. Sonny must have put a fresh washcloth on his forehead, but it had slipped off, and now his pillow was wet. He dropped the washcloth on the floor, and turned his pillow over.

"You were talking again, I thought you were talking to me," Sonny said.

_The world doesn't revolve around you, you know. Right now I'm sick, and with world is revolving around me, only it's going sideways._

"How're you feeling?" Sonny asked.

"Better," Vinnie said, and went to sit up, and realized he'd been wrong. "No, wait."

"You gotta get up?" Sonny asked.

Vinnie thought about it. "Yeah. Yeah, my stomach—"

"I don't need details," Sonny said. "You need help?"

"No, I'm OK." Vinnie stumbled to the bathroom.

When he came back, Sonny was waiting with a glass of something.

"How long was I asleep?" Vinnie asked.

"Drink this," Sonny said, tapping him on the shoulder with the cool glass.

Vinnie took the glass, but he couldn't see what was in it. The room seemed unnaturally dark. "What is it?"

"Rat poison," Sonny answered. "Just drink it."

It was citrusy, and his stomach didn't like it. "What is it?"

"Grapefruit juice, orange juice, and water. It's for your fever."

Vinnie could feel it coming back up. Fortunately, he still had the glass in his hands, and nothing came up with it. "I don't think it's gonna help."

"I'll get you some water," Sonny muttered, and as he left the room, Vinnie thought he heard him say something about wishing fucking Frank was there dealing with this.

Vinnie fell over on the bed. He could hear something loud in the kitchen, like a very small car with a serious transmission problem, gears grinding and chewing. The next thing he heard was Sonny swearing, then a crash, followed by pounding. _Is Frank trying to knock down the door again?_ was followed in his mind by _No, we already played that scene,_ and Vinnie fell back to sleep.

_"Did you want to talk to me about Sonny?" Vinnie asked. What else did they have to talk about, really?_

_Theresa sort of laughed. Vinnie wondered if she'd learned that contemptuous-but-amused laugh from Sonny. "Why would I want to talk to you about Sonny?"_

_The way she threw her inflections, it was hard to tell where the emphasis was: Why would I want to talk to **you** about Sonny? Or why would I want to talk to you about **Sonny**? Either way, it appeared she didn't want to talk to him about Sonny._

_Vinnie shrugged. He was thinking about a cigarette, and then he thought,_ But I don't smoke in my dreams. _And that was true, he couldn't remember ever having a dream where he had a cigarette._ I'm having a dream right now. Can you remember old dreams when you're dreaming?

"Will you get under the damn covers?" Sonny said. "You're going to get a chill."

"'M hot," Vinnie said, and then, "Am I awake?"

"Too bad," Sonny said, covering him up.

"I don't want the covers on me!" He flung them off, the violent move making his head hurt.

"Cut it out! You'll get a chill." Sonny put the covers back on him, and tucked them in for good measure.

"What was all that noise?" Vinnie asked.

"The cuisinart broke," Sonny said.

"What happened?" Vinnie asked.

"I was crushing some ice," Sonny said diffidently.

"You can’t use a cuisinart for that," Vinnie said. "You’ll burn out the motor."

"No kidding?" Sonny asked. "Where were you ten minutes ago?"

"I was right here," Vinnie said, thinking that was a weird question, then he realized Sonny was being sarcastic. "So wha’d you do, pound it with a hammer?" _Do we even have a hammer?_

"Will you shut up? I brought you something to drink."

Vinnie opened his eyes. Sonny had a glass in his hand, a different glass, and it even had a straw in it, a bendy straw. He wondered where Sonny had gotten a bendy straw. He also wondered what time it was.

"Drink this," Sonny said.

"I'm afraid I'll throw it up," Vinnie said, but when Sonny held the glass close for him, he drank, and it felt wonderful. It wasn't the water he'd expected, it was ginger ale, ginger ale in a glass of crushed ice. This was strange; Vinnie knew they didn't have any ginger ale. "Am I asleep again?"

Sonny didn't answer him. "Drink some more."

Vinnie did. "Where did we get ginger ale?" he whispered, just in case he was asleep.

"I had it smuggled in special," Sonny whispered back. He put his hand back on Vinnie's forehead, and his hand felt nearly as cool as the washcloth had. "Jesus, no wonder you're babbling; you're burning up."

"Am I asleep?" Vinnie asked.

"No!" Sonny answered, annoyed now. "You're not asleep, you're just feverish. Finish your ginger ale and go back to sleep."

Vinnie slurped the rest of the ginger ale, and Sonny took the glass away.

In a minute the wonderful cold washcloth was back on his face. "I'm having fever dreams," he told Sonny.

"Well, you got a fever," Sonny said.

"I hate these dreams; I always have 'em like this when I'm sick, they go on forever. It's like being stuck in a soap opera."

"You won't be sick forever."

"Did you ever have dreams like that? You'd wake up, but when you went back to sleep it continued with the same dream?"

"Huh-uh," Sonny said, "but I never get sick."

Vinnie thought about that. "Really?"

"Mumps when I was a kid. Chicken pox. I don't remember anything else. Guess I had measles. I think I had a cold once."

"No wonder you were such a lousy patient."

"What're you talking about, lousy patient? You want some more ginger ale?"

"Yeah. Lemme sit up." Sonny helped him, put pillows behind his back, and gave him back the glass. "When you got shot. You were the world’s worst patient."

"I got no idea what you're talking about."

Vinnie drank some more. _Sonny can't have forgotten about being shot, so maybe this's part of the dream. Sonny keeps saying it isn't, but if Sonny's in the dream, maybe he doesn’t know._ And following that thought, _I better not let him know I've been dreaming about Theresa._ "You got shot—by Reynaldo Sykes—"

"I know that!" Sonny was exasperated. "I don't know what you mean about me being a bad patient."

"Well, you wouldn't wear your oxygen mask, and since you couldn't breathe without it—you really don't remember that?"

Sonny shrugged. "Sort of. So what?"

"And you tried to call down to have lasagna brought up, after the doctor told you you had to be on a bland diet."

Sonny said something nasty about the doctor, followed by an impatient, "So what?"

"He wasn't your biggest fan either. He didn't want you to leave the hospital."

"He was an idiot. And what's your point?"

Vinnie had the urge to say _You started this!_ , but he was too tired. "I don't have one. You really don't remember anything about getting shot?" It was a silly question, really; Vinnie knew about trauma-induced amnesia, he'd experienced it for himself when Aldo shot him. The last thing he remembered about the day he was shot was Mel rambling on about this great stand-up comic he'd invited to dinner. Roger told him later that he was lucky not to remember the guy; if he'd known he could have gotten shot instead of remembering those bad jokes, he might've traded places with Vinnie.

So Vinnie knew that Sonny not remembering wasn't really worthy of note, but he'd always wondered just what had happened in that room while he was checking out the one next door.

"You want some more?" Sonny took his empty glass away from him.

"No, thanks."

Sonny set the glass on the bedside table.

"What happened, anyway?" Sonny asked. "What were you doing in the room next door?"

Vinnie didn't pretend he didn't understand. Really, he was surprised Sonny hadn't asked a long time ago.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Vinnie asked.

"It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe I can explain it."

Sonny had pulled back the curtain and was looking out, something he invariably did on the few occasions he talked about Dave. "The last thing I remember is Dave saying something about his toaster. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Yeah, that makes sense to me. Sykes was talking about how these guns would convert into rocket launchers or something, and Dave said something like, ‘I got a toaster that pops popcorn. So what?’"

Sonny didn't say anything, so Vinnie went on. "I was standing there next to Tony, and I heard a noise in the next room. Tony told me to go check it out, and when I got there, I found a couple of Sykes's guys there. My guess is, Sykes's plan was to agree to whatever deal you offered, then ambush us all as we left the room. Once I left the room, he probably figured I was going next door. I had the drop on those guys until the shooting started."

"You think they were gonna kill Tony, too?" Sonny asked. He was still looking out the window.

"I dunno. I would'a, if I'd been Sykes. After all, he paid Tony, and the next thing he knows, you an' Dave are holding his guns for ransom. Tony’s the one who caused the problem."

"Yeah, you’re probably right. Good. That's good."

It was good that, in another lifetime, a man who was now dead had planned to kill not only Sonny, and his brother, and anybody who was there with them, but also Tony Greco, who was responsible for the whole mess in the first place—and was now dead himself. _Of course it is._ Vinnie decided to change the subject. "You know, I'm the one who's sick here," Vinnie said.

Sonny grinned at him. "No fooling? You're sick? Why didn't you tell me?"

Vinnie laughed. "So, if I'm sick, how come I'm telling you stories? You're supposed to be trying to entertain me."

"Entertain you? You want entertainment now?"

"Well, I missed getting to watch you break the cuisinart. And every time I wake up, you're gone."

"I had to go out and get the ginger ale, and a bunch'a other stuff you'll need later."

"Stuff like what?" Vinnie asked. But the ginger ale was about to come back up. He struggled out from under the covers, with Sonny helping him.

After the ginger ale came dry heaves, which Vinnie hated a lot more than actually throwing up.

When he got back to bed, Sonny was waiting with a fresh glass of ginger ale.

"You’re kidding, right?"

"You need to force fluids," Sonny said. Vinnie got the feeling the operative word in that sentence was ‘force.’ He took the glass and drank, and he had to admit it was still wonderful. But he didn’t have to admit it to Sonny.

When the ginger ale was gone, he lay back down. They got the pillows re-arranged, then Vinnie closed his eyes, and Sonny put a cold washcloth back on his head.

Sonny turned off the light, and the room went dark the way a heavily-curtained room is in the afternoon, like a sanctuary from the real world. It reminded Vinnie of summer afternoons when he was a kid, when his mother would close the curtains to keep out the heat.

Sonny was gone a while, then he was back, sitting on the bed next to Vinnie. "It wasn’t one thing or another," Sonny said as though he was answering a question.

Vinnie tried to remember if he’d asked a question. He didn’t remember asking one. Maybe he’d been talking in his sleep again.

"I mean, l wouldn’t’ve married her just because she was Joey Baggs’s daughter." He shrugged uncomfortably. "So, yeah. l loved her. Jesus! I’d known her her whole life! I wouldn’t’ve married her just for her father’s connections."

Vinnie let his eyes close and pretended not to be listening. Sonny was only sort of talking to him, and he was trying not to say he’d been in love with Theresa. _He thinks I’ll be jealous._ Vinnie didn’t let himself smile at this.

"I wouldn’t’ve asked her to marry me right then if she wasn’t Joey’s daughter—I wouldn’t’ve asked anybody to marry me right then if there wasn’t some advantage to it! You know what was going on; it would’a been stupid, to let myself get distracted like that. You know, it wasn’t even my idea to marry her."

"It wasn't?" Vinnie asked. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mack’s," Sonny said, and he was laughing. "He was the one who suggested I spend some time with Joey."

"Wait, how does ‘spend some time with Joey’ translate into ‘marry Theresa’?" Vinnie asked.

Sonny was quiet a while. He turned over the washcloth on Vinnie’s forehead so the cool side was against his skin. And for a minute his fingers were in Vinnie’s hair, playing with it.

"Was that a tough question?" Vinnie asked.

"Not tough, complicated. Maybe you had to be there."

"Sonny. I was there, remember?"

Sonny laughed again. "You were there at the end. You really think you can come in at the end of a guy's life and know everything there is to know?"

Vinnie thought about saying it wasn't the end of Sonny's life, that he was still alive, but— Well, it really had been the end of his life, hadn't it? The end of his life as Sonny Steelgrave.

"You think because I spent a few hours with your brother, I completely understand your relationship with him?" Sonny elaborated.

"Yeah, you're right."

Sonny’s silence resumed, and Vinnie started to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have pushed. Or maybe I shouldn’t’ve asked him about Theresa this morning.

He was considering pretending to be asleep, to let Sonny off the hook, when Sonny broke the silence. "Theresa was always in love with me."

Well, that explained Sonny’s silence: even his rampant egoism had a hard time saying those words aloud.

"She was a cute kid," Sonny went on. "Pretty, smart as hell." Again with the silence. "I hadn’t seen her for a few years."

"How come?" Vinnie asked.

Some more silence. Vinnie took the washcloth off his eyes and looked at Sonny. "How come?"

Was it possible that Sonny was blushing? He was smiling, and Vinnie knew that smile: embarrassed triumph. It was the smile Sonny got when he’d done something he was proud of even though he shouldn’t be. Usually Vinnie saw it in connection with something Sonny was doing to him.

"C’m’on, you started this, now you gotta tell me. How come you’d been avoiding Theresa for—how many years was it?"

A small silence. "Uh . . . yeah. Four." Vinnie loved the slightly giddy tone Sonny’s voice had.

"Four years? Why would you avoid her for four years?"

"I didn’t say I’d been avoiding her, I said I hadn’t seen her!" Sonny laughed, nervously. "You know, maybe in passing, but I hadn't really seen her."

"Why not?"

"I took her home from the St. Genesius dinner."

"Oh, yeah, well, that makes sense." Very often the best way to get something out of Sonny was to use verbal judo on him: stop pushing him and let his own momentum carry him forward.

"Idiot," Sonny muttered. "Dona Carmella had a headache, Joey took her home early— Theresa wanted to stay, so I said I’d drive her home." He shook his head.

"Sonny. What happened when you drove Theresa home?"

"Nothing!" That was a lie, and they both knew it.

"Nothing happened so you didn't see her again for four years?"

"Things got a little—things got a little out of—uh—out of control." Sonny was practically squirming with discomfort, but he still wore that same smile—only wider.

"A little out of control?" Vinnie asked. This was like pulling teeth, only, well, more fun. "Sonny?"

Sonny was just shaking his head. "She was—things could’ve gone a lot farther, only— She was Joe Baglia’s daughter!"

"And you were hoping to keep all your body parts attached," Vinnie said in agreement.

"Yeah, well— Yeah." Sonny was laughing.

"But why did you avoid her for four years afterward? I mean, what were you afraid was going to happen if you saw her? And what’s that got to do with— How far **did** things go?"

"None’a your fucking business!"

"That far. No wonder you were avoiding her."

"Hey, I never said—"

"OK, that was really entertaining, but it doesn’t explain about Mahoney. I don’t believe you told him you made it with Theresa Baglia in the backseat of your limo—"

"That is not what happened—"

"So what did you tell him?" Vinnie asked.

"I didn’t tell him anything! I never told anybody anything about it!" Sonny shook his head. "Jesus, what’s the matter with you?"

"So why would Mack think you wanted to marry Theresa?"

"He didn't think I wanted to marry Theresa, he thought I should marry her, and he was right. And he knew she wanted to marry me, and that her mother wanted her to."

"How did—" Vinnie started, and then he stopped. "Never mind." He knew how Mahoney had known Theresa—and her mother—were after Sonny; he knew the same way Vinnie’s mother could tell him that Adrienne Pentangeli was the one to ask to the dance because she was sure to say yes: his mother knew what was going on around him. And Mahoney knew what was going on around _Sonny. And what about you an' me?_ Vinnie wondered, but he didn't ask. Sonny adored him, no question about that, but whatever was or wasn't going on between them had nothing to do with marriage or family. "What about Don Baglia?"

"What about him?"

"Did he want Theresa to marry you?"

"He gave me permission, didn't he?" Sonny asked, as though he was answering some other question Vinnie had asked him, one he didn't like. "Truth is, I don't think he ever thought about her not being a little girl anymore, or that she was grown up enough to marry anybody."

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," Vinnie said. He was starting to feel dizzy again.

"Yeah, me too. She would'a made a great wife." Sonny’s fingers were in his hair again. "You ought’a get yourself some more sleep."

Vinnie liked that idea.

_Theresa wasn't saying anything. She was just—looking at him. Not the way Sonny looked at him. Not the way anybody else Vinnie had ever known had looked at him, not even Frank when he was waiting for an answer he knew he didn't want to hear. Her look was exceedingly passive, as though she wasn't waiting for anything. So why did Vinnie feel compelled to give her something, to say something, to offer her a breath mint, or ask her how her day had been, or point out that her brother's shirt was soaked with blood and that maybe they should take him to a hospital—?_

_Aldo had a cell phone, and he seemed to be programming numbers into it. Either that, or it was the kind with a game in it and he was playing something—and losing, since he kept swearing. Every so often it made a little beep._

_Theresa never looked at him, though. Her gaze never left Vinnie, and it never wavered._

_Vinnie took a deep breath, then tried to let it out slowly, inconspicuously._ Yeah, don't let her know you're breathing, that'd be bad. _And he tried not to laugh._

_He'd always had this problem. Eventually, any uncomfortable situation that didn't graduate into something threatening would make him start laughing. They'd had the same effect on Roger, which was why they'd found themselves laughing hysterically at absolutely nothing more times than Vinnie could remember. That was one thing you could say about working for Mel: very often things got quite uncomfortable for one reason or another._

__Just don't say anything. _A voice in Vinnie's head kept telling him that, but it wasn't a voice Vinnie was used to hearing in his head; he couldn't place it, couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman._ Just don't say anything. __

_Frank had once told him about an agent who had a unique way of getting confessions out of suspects. He'd done it by not asking any questions. He'd go into the interrogation room where the suspect was waiting, carrying a whole stack of paperwork. He'd sit down, take out a pen, and start filling out forms, completely ignoring the suspect. Eventually the suspect would ask him something, what he was doing there, when the questions were going to start, who the hell he was, something. And the agent would look up, distracted. "Oh, yeah, hi," he'd say, then introduce himself. "I'm just here to make sure you don't try to kill yourself. You don't mind if I try to get some paperwork done, do you?"_

_Of course, that inevitably led to the question of why the suspect would want to kill himself. And the agent's answer would be, "Well, you know, with the case we got against you, and the kind'a time you're looking at—anyway, look, just don't screw up my evening, OK? I'll you, that whole suicide watch thing is a big joke, so if you wanna do it, just wait 'til they lock you up. Then it'll be somebody else's headache."_

_It unsettled them, Frank said, and he and Vinnie both laughed because of course it unsettled them, it would get them talking nervously, and the agent would act incredibly put-upon. "C'm'on, pal, I'm not asking you anything except for a little quiet. Now will you shut up?" And somehow, not being asked questions made the need to defend oneself seem so much stronger. Eventually the suspect would say something he shouldn't._

__Yeah, but Frank hasn't told me that story yet.

What? __

_That was, in the timeline of the dream Frank hadn't told him that story yet, because Sonny wasn't dead yet—_

__Wait a minute. Sonny isn't going to die. Sonny didn't die! But—nobody even thinks he's dead, he's married to Theresa— What the hell happened?

This is a dream, _the voice reminded him._ None of this happened, none of it's real. Don't worry about making the timeline work. It's a dream.

Yeah, but still— __

_"Motherfucking sonofabitch!" Aldo yelled at his cell phone. Vinnie jumped, but Theresa didn't even look over at him. The phone beeped._

_And Vinnie cracked. "So, didja have a good time tonight?"_

_Theresa didn't say anything, she just laughed._

_Vinnie wasn't sure what that meant, but she was starting to get to him._ Just say something, will you? __

_But she didn't._

_Aldo's issues with his phone seemed to be getting worse. "Die, you motherfucking sonofabitch!" The phone beeped twice._

_Vinnie looked out the window. The limo didn't seem to be moving. "Are we parked someplace?"_

_Theresa laughed again, but this time she did say something. "Yes, of course we're parked someplace. We're not ready to go yet."_

Vinnie woke up. Sonny was sitting next to him on the bed, reading the paper.

"You OK?" Sonny asked, not sounding very interested.

"Yeah. No. You know."

"Yeah." Sonny put his hand on Vinnie’s forehead. "Not bad."

"I’m dizzy."

"You need to get up?"

Vinnie thought about it. "No."

"Then who cares? Close your eyes, go back to sleep."

Vinnie turned over, wrapped his arms around his pillow. Sonny was saying something, but it wasn't anything, just the stuff you say to somebody when they're sick, so Vinnie didn't try to listen.

_The car was moving now, and Aldo was gone. Only a wet, messy stain of his blood was left, to show where he had been. Vinnie was scared, though he couldn't explain why. He leaned forward, trying to meet her eyes. "I'm having a bad dream," he told her. "I'm having a very bad dream." Vinnie kept saying it, as though by talking about it he could somehow take himself out of the dream. "I don't know what's going on—where are we going?"_

_"It's all right, you're not getting out there," Theresa said._

_"Are you?"_

_Theresa just shook her head, not in answer to his question, but dismissing it._

_The inside of the limo suddenly got very bright. Vinnie looked out and saw there were police cars all around, their mars lights flashing, filling the car. There were cops everywhere, and Vinnie knew that should make him feel safer, but—_

_Should it really make him feel safer? Whose side was he on?_

_He looked back at Theresa, trying to hide his panic. "Should I know what's going on?"_

_"You do know what's going on," Theresa said, and she was sounding more than annoyed. It was the same tone she'd used just before she'd spat into Beckstead's champagne. "You know exactly what’s going on. Now just be quiet."_

Vinnie was suddenly wide awake. The room was dark, but there was a light on in his bathroom, the door most of the way closed, and the light around the doorframe seemed disturbing, menacing. He needed to get up—he needed to—he needed to find something, there was something in the living room that he needed, it was down under the sofa cushions, maybe it was his gun, or maybe— Vinnie couldn't remember, he just had to find it—

Standing up was hard; gravity seemed to have become more than a passive force of nature and something actively working against him. Vinnie got to his feet and was on his way out of the room when the bathroom light went out, leaving him in a darkness that seemed more like another place than a room in a San Francisco apartment; in the dark, he could be anyplace, or no place at all.

"Where are you going?" Sonny's annoyed voice relieved him.

"Why did you turn off the lights?" Vinnie asked.

"I was done in the bathroom," Sonny answered, and Vinnie realized he was the one who'd been in there, and the other lights had been in a dream. "Where are you going?" Sonny had his hand on Vinnie's arm. He wasn’t leading him back to bed though, he was taking him into the hall.

"Where are we going? I don't know what’s going on, but I don’t want to go back to jail."

"Committed any crimes lately?" Sonny asked. "Anyway, you think **I’d** be taking you to jail? That’s a good one."

"Where are we going?"

"My room. You'll be more comfortable."

_I'll be more comfortable?_ There was nothing in Sonny's room that would make Vinnie more comfortable than his own room, nothing special about his bed. In fact, it was the same bed as Vinnie's, the same size, the same mattress. The headboard was different. Sonny's room had a better view, but the shades were drawn. It was Sonny who preferred his own room, his own bed, his own space.

Vinnie's room was like a vestigial appendage, not really good for anything unless they weren't talking to each other and Vinnie wanted to get away from Sonny. Before the big shake-up, he'd only slept in here occasionally, and when he did, he'd wake up with Sonny either sleeping with him, or in a bad mood from sleeping alone. Sonny had set the apartment up badly for sneaking into Vinnie's room in the night; he'd chosen the better bedroom (of fucking course) and he'd let Vinnie pick out his own bed, which he didn't like. But since he did like Vinnie, nearly every night he'd have Vinnie come into his room at bedtime, under some pretext that was followed up with, "You might as well sleep in here," as though Vinnie's bedroom was on the other side of town.

It was stupid, but Vinnie kind of missed that.

The point was, Vinnie's bed was fine for occasional sex, but for just spending time, Sonny wanted his own. And since he wanted Vinnie with him, that meant moving Vinnie.

The sheets were fresh though, which was nice. "I need another pillow."

"Yeah, yeah. Get under the covers."

Vinnie lay down, and Sonny pulled the horrible, stifling covers up over him. Vinnie pushed them down again.

"Quit it. Nobody's putting you in jail."

"I didn't kill you," Vinnie said. _Did Theresa say I had?_ Vinnie couldn’t remember, but it seemed she was accusing him of something, and the only other thing he’d done to her was steal Sonny’s heart. Vinnie had no defense against that. "I didn’t kill you," he said again.

"Yeah, we established that. And we're not in purgatory. We’re not even in Brooklyn."

"Or the baby." How Susan and the imaginary baby had come into it, Vinnie didn’t know. His head felt fuzzy, and everything in it was running together, like chalk art in the rain. "I didn’t kill the baby."

That got Sonny's attention. "What baby?"

"There wasn't any baby." Vinnie was trying to explain, but he knew this was pretty inadequate.

"Uh-huh." Amazingly, Sonny seemed to follow this easily. "But she told you there was."

"Yeah, but she was crazy."

"Didn't anybody ever tell you never to sleep with anybody crazier than you are?"

Vinnie started laughing at that, and he couldn't stop, even though it was making his head hurt, and he couldn't explain.

"You want some more ginger ale? Maybe a piece of toast?" Sonny asked.

"Yeah. No toast." Vinnie looked around the dark room. Sonny must have moved the TV in from the living room, because it was in the corner now. "I wonder how long I’m supposed to be sick."

Sonny came back with his ginger ale and his pillow. "Can you hold your own glass?"

"I'm not that sick," Vinnie said, but he held it with two hands. "I'm in a lot of trouble, though."

"Yeah? In trouble for what?"

"Killing you."

"Still not dead," Sonny said, but he didn't sound annoyed, he sounded like he was laughing. "You really gotta come up with something new to have bad dreams about."

"This is a new one. I think Theresa’s gonna have me killed."

"Jesus." Sonny chuckled. "Well, I wouldn’t put it past her."

"Me neither. She punched Frank in the mouth, you know."

"Oh, yeah? Good for her. Was that before or after she planned the hit on you?"

Vinnie realized Sonny thought he was still talking about his dreams. "No, you don’t get it. Theresa really hit Frank in the mouth."

"What are you talking about?" Sonny sounded intrigued.

"When she got to the St. Martin for the wedding, Frank—uh—tried to stop her from going inside, and she slugged him. Gave him a helluva bruise, too."

Vinnie should have expected Sonny’s reaction—well, he did expect it, but he didn’t expect it to go on for quite so long. Vinnie just watched him. He loved it when Sonny laughed, even if he was laughing because Frank took a punch in the face.

When he finally stopped laughing, Sonny said, "Well, I could’a told him not to stand in her way."

"Got any idea how to get her off my back?" Vinnie asked. "I think she’s got the law on her side, too."

Sonny stroked his face. "Theresa **and** the cops? Baby, you are screwed. Good thing it’s just a bad dream."

"So you’re not gonna help me?" He put his hand over Sonny’s, held it.

"It’s a dream. You seriously want me to help you—what, sweet-talk Theresa outta being mad at you? Jesus, baby, I don’t know. Tell her I’m not dead."

"I don’t think she thinks you are dead." Vinnie wished Sonny would quit calling him baby, it made it hard for him to think even when thinking wasn’t a problem.

"You just said you were in trouble with her for killing me."

"It’s a dream, it doesn’t make any sense."

Sonny untangled his hand, stroked Vinnie’s other cheek. "I got you some orange sherbert, baby, and in the morning you can have toast for breakfast."

The idea of eating anything was about as appealing as being hit in the head with a hammer, but Vinnie didn't tell Sonny that. "Thanks." He drank his ginger ale and gave Sonny back the glass.

_Paul Beckstead opened the limo's front door, the driver's door, and got in. "Where to, Senora Steelgrave?"_

_"You can just take me home, Paul. My husband will be expecting his dinner soon. But my friend here will be going on to the airport. That's right, isn't it, Vinnie?"_

_"Yeah, sure, that'll be great." Vinnie didn't know why he was going to the airport, but he didn't want to argue with Theresa. He felt like a mouse who'd been toyed with by a cat and was now being released. It was a relief, except the cat was still sitting across from him, smiling._

_And why was he going to the airport? Why was Paul calling Theresa Senora Steelgrave? Vinnie tried the door handle, trying to do it without drawing attention to himself._

_Paul said something in Spanish, and Theresa laughed. "No, Mr. Terranova won't be getting out until we stop the car."_

_Paul said something else, again in Spanish. Vinnie didn't get exactly what it was, but he was sure there was something about a box being the right size. He tried not to say anything, but somehow the question "What box?" came out of his mouth._

_"Don't worry, senor, the box will be big enough. And you'll be asleep the whole time."_

_"The word you're looking for is unconscious, Pablo," Theresa corrected mildly. "Mr. Terranova will be unconscious."_

_"Why will I—"_

_"Hush," Theresa said, her tone still mild. "It will be entirely painless, this time. No one will be banging your head on the floor, this time. Sonny's gone to Florida for the weekend, and this will be handled by others, people not so emotionally entangled."_

_"What? What will be handled by other people?"_

_"You, Vinnie. You'll be handled by other people. But it won't be like last time, you won't be hurt. We'll just put you in a box and send you to."_

_"Send me to? Send me to where?" Vinnie was trying to keep the panic out of his voice, and he succeeded: no sound came out at all. "Send me to where?" Vinnie asked again. "Send me to where?!" He was yelling now, but there was still nothing coming out._

_Paul said something in Spanish, and Theresa laughed. "It will all be over soon," she said in agreement. "You'll get a raise for this, Pablo."_

"Vinnie. C'm'on, wake up." Sonny was shaking him. "Wake up."

Vinnie opened his eyes, unspeakably relieved. "You're not in Florida."

"You were flipping out because you thought I was in Florida?" Sonny asked.

"No, Theresa was—it wasn't jail, it was a box."

"What does that mean, it wasn't jail, it was a box?"

"Theresa and Paul Beckstead were taking me to the airport, and they were gonna put me in a box, I think they were sending me back to El Salvador! Theresa kept saying nobody was going to bang my head on the floor this time, which— I think when they grabbed me, I think they banged my head on the floor! Beckstead was driving Theresa, and he was speaking Spanish—"

"Hey, settle down." Sonny's hand rested on Vinnie's shoulder. "It was a dream, remember? Nobody's sending you anyplace."

"Yeah. Yeah. Nothing's really happening." Vinnie lay there, breathing hard, trying not to think about his dream.

"Sounds like I really should'a married Theresa," Sonny said thoughtfully. "She's got the old head'a the OCB driving for her, doing her clean-up work?"

"Yeah, she's in charge, all right," Vinnie said. Sonny's hand had moved from his shoulder to his lower back, its weight a comfort.

"You think Beckstead had something to do with you getting grabbed?" Sonny asked.

"What?" The idea sounded ridiculous.

"You're the one who said your own people were behind it. You think he was one of 'em?"

Vinnie didn't know what to say. He'd never thought about Paul—he'd never thought about anybody in particular, except for the people he knew were involved. In Vinnie's mind, the other conspirators were always shadowy, faceless people, probably because he had no idea if they even existed. "I dunno, I don't—he an' Frank were close. I don't know if he'd—"

"Baby," Sonny said, rubbing his back. "It was just a question. You don't have to figure it out. It doesn't matter anymore."

Vinnie wanted to argue that it did matter, it mattered a lot, but Sonny would never understand that. If there was one thing Sonny was good at, it was deciding the past didn't matter.

_They drove in silence. Vinnie looked out the window. He kept catching sight of the Manhattan Bridge, which was nowhere near Atlantic City, and they didn't seem to be getting any closer. They seemed to be driving around in circles._

_No one said anything. It sounded like they were driving on wet pavement, but it didn't seem to be raining. It was so quiet inside the car, Vinnie wanted to lunge over the seat and turn on the radio. They passed the Manhattan Bridge again._

_Vinnie tried to read a street sign, but it looked like it said Turnip._ We're on Turnip Street? What? __

_"Where are we?"_

_"You'll have to be patient, senor," Frank said. "Traffic is very heavy this time of day."_

_There was no traffic; the streets were deserted, dark, and unfamiliar._

_Frank pointed at one of the buildings. It looked like an abandoned warehouse. "Senor Bat Masterson used to live there," Frank said, as though he was a tour guide. "He kept a large herd of cattle on the ground floor."_

_"Isn't that interesting?" Theresa said. "I never heard that before."_

Vinnie woke up. The TV was on, and he heard Clint Eastwood saying something, and when he peered at the TV, he saw that _Rawhide_ was on. "Well, that explains Bat Masterson," Vinnie said.

Sonny looked at him. "He's not in this."

Vinnie closed his eyes again. "No, I know, but I dreamed he—never mind. Where are we?"

"Where are we?" Sonny asked. "Where do you think we are?"

"No, I mean—what time is it?"

"Nearly seven. Dinner'll be here soon."

"I don't want any dinner," Vinnie said, and turned over.

"My dinner. How're you feeling?"

"Like Bat Masterson's cattle have been walking on me."

"Bat Masterson wasn't a rancher, he was a gunfighter. And later a sports writer."

"They prob'ly don't let you keep cattle on Turnip Street anyway," Vinnie said, and went back to sleep.

_And now Theresa was gone. It was just Frank in the front seat, driving them across the 59th Street Bridge. "Frank, are you undercover?"_

_"You mean, am I really Theresa Steelgrave’s chauffeur?" Frank asked, and he sounded reassuringly sarcastic. "No, Vince, I’m not."_

_"He’s not dead, you know. Sonny."_

_"Who said he was?"_

_"You. Me. Just about everybody, when I’m awake. This is a dream."_

_"I know it is."_

_Of course he did. Frank knew everything, and what he didn’t know, he pretended to, so Vinnie would feel secure. Field directors were like parents that way; you were supposed to feel like they knew everything._

_"How did we get to 59th Street?" Vinnie asked._

_"It's all right, Vince. I know you can fly."_

_"I can fly?" Vince asked. He didn't remember Frank ever telling him that before._

_"It's all right, Vince," Frank said again. "You don't have to pretend anymore."_

_"I wasn’t pretending, Frank. I was never pretending with you."_

_"It’s all right, Vince," Frank said a third time._

Vinnie woke up. He was feeling better, and when he thought about his dream, it fit the pattern of his old fever dreams: when the fever broke, the dreams stopped being disturbing.

The TV was still on. Sonny must have found a station that showed old western TV shows, because _Have Gun, Will Travel_ was on. Sonny was asleep, on top of the covers, still dressed.

Vinnie got up, went to the bathroom, then out to the kitchen for some more ginger ale. The idea of orange sherbert didn’t sound so bad anymore. He got a bowl out of the cabinet.

It looked like a pretty night out. Vinnie took his bowl of sherbert out to the balcony. He was still feeling shaky and sick, but he no longer felt like he wanted to die. He looked at the view and ate his sherbert.

_Frank told me I can fly._ Vinnie didn’t know what that meant, but it gave him a nice, warm feeling. _Frank thinks I can fly._

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" Sonny was scowling at him sleepily.

Vinnie could see he'd scared him, but instead of the apology that came to mind, he said, "I can fly," which was entirely the wrong thing to say.

"Get back in the house!" Sonny yelled, and he grabbed Vinnie's arm hard enough to leave bruises. Vinnie dropped his bowl, and it shattered. "Should have gotten an apartment on the ground floor, but then I'd have to worry about you wandering out into traffic—"

"I wasn't going to jump off the balcony! It was a metaphor."

Sonny shoved him into the living room. "Get your goddamned metaphor back in bed! And if you do anything like this again, I'll **push** you off the balcony!"

"All right, all right." Vinnie walked with him to the bedroom. _Have Gun, Will Travel_ was over, replaced by _Maverick._ "Did you play cowboys and Indians when you were a kid?" Vinnie asked.

"Did I—yeah, why?"

"I just wondered." This was as pointless as asking about Theresa, and Vinnie didn't even know why he wanted to know. He sat back down on the bed.

"Well, you missed _Bat Masterson,_ " Sonny said. "You slept through it, but it’ll be on again tomorrow. You can watch westerns all day tomorrow, on the condition that you stay in bed! You're sick. And before you ask, I also had an electric train."

Vinnie was— Vinnie was shocked. If Sonny had said he'd had a pony, Vinnie couldn't have been more surprised. "Those are expensive."

Sonny laughed at his reaction, understanding it. "My father was making good money that year. Bought my mother a fur coat, too." He stopped suddenly, looking at Vinnie as though Vinnie had interrupted him. He seemed about to ask Vinnie a question, but he didn't. "Stay here. I'm going to make you some toast." He started out of the room, then turned and looked at Vinnie. "Stay here."

"All right, all right." Vinnie lay down and pulled the covers up. "Don’t try to use the toaster to crush ice," he called after Sonny, who called him a name.

Dry toast wasn’t Vinnie’s favorite thing in the world, but he happily ate the two pieces of it Sonny brought him. He was less happy with the way Sonny stood there squinting at him. "What? Is my nose on upside down or something?"

"Did your father drive a bread truck?" Sonny asked abruptly.

"Yeah, I told you that." Was it the toast that had reminded him of that conversation?

"You did? When?"

"Long time ago."

"Oh." Sonny walked away, started getting undressed for bed.

"Why would you ask me if my father drove a bread truck if you didn't already know?" Vinnie asked.

"Why would I ask you if I **did** already know?" Sonny countered. "If I knew, I wouldn't need to ask."

"I know that! I just mean—it's so random."

Sonny shrugged. "You said something about it, back in Maine, but I didn't know what you were talking about."

"And you didn't ask?"

"No, I didn't ask. Your explanations didn't make any more sense than any of the rest of your rambling." He was putting on his pajamas, which meant he’d be sleeping on his own side of the bed, away from Vinnie and his germs.

"I told you about my father when we were locked in the theatre," Vinnie said. "And you said something about him running numbers."

Sonny shrugged. Sonny’s shrugs could be as expressive as his face. This one said he wasn’t going to be held responsible for stating the obvious.

"And you were sort’a right."

Sonny nodded. "Yeah. You feeling better?"

"Yeah, some."

"Good. Go brush your teeth, gargle. You’ll feel better in the morning."

That wasn't a bad idea. Vinnie walked down the hall to his bathroom, calling over his shoulder, "Yeah, OK, but quit talking to me like my mother."

"How’s Theresa?" Sonny yelled. "Still want you dead?"

"I dunno! Last time I saw her, she needed to get home to make you dinner!"

"Hey, great, lemme know what she makes. She’s a great cook." Sonny had followed Vinnie to the bathroom and was watching as he brushed his teeth. "That's a lot better than Frank telling you to jump off buildings."

"Frank didn't—" Vinnie saw Sonny in the mirror, smiling, waiting for him to be provoked. "It was a metaphor."

"Yeah, sure it was."

Vinnie was thinking about how, no matter how far away from him in the bed Sonny started out, it never took very long for him to end up wrapped around Vinnie. It was like they had some kind of private gravitational pull, and it was something Vinnie could count on. He rinsed his mouth one last time, drank a little water, then turned off the bathroom light.

Sonny was still standing in the doorway, blocking his path. He ran his finger along Vinnie's bottom lip, and for a second Vinnie thought he'd missed wiping off some toothpaste. Sonny's eyes said he meant something else. "You feeling . . . uh, OK?"

Vinnie shrugged. "Yeah. No. Not so much. You know." That gravitational pull seemed to have kicked in early.

Sonny smiled. "Yeah.


End file.
